With all this guff about a war with Spain in defence of Gibraltar we got to thinking: What would happen? How would it play out?

We’ve concluded that such an event would be an absolute farce. Probably beginning with:

Theresa May ordering a seaborne invasion of Spain with a ‘Task Force’ comprising of an aircraft carrier with no planes. The Spanish President responds by appealing for volunteer fighters, but the appeal falls on deaf ears as the only Spaniards with any interest in coming to the cold damp UK are already here working in bars and restaurants. The rest like their sunshine, their senoritas and their La Liga and can’t be arsed.

Arron Banks funds a home defence unit and appoints Nigel Farage Captain of the Walmington on Sea platoon.

Theresa May makes plans for a bowling game with Donald Trump at Plymouth Hoe on D-Day2.0 and promises to wear ‘fuck me’ shoes and test the weight of Trump’s bowls.

In the meantime while the Spanish are watching El Clasico between Real Madrid and Barcelona at the Bernabeu and lobbing pig heads onto the playing area, Britain launches a sneaky full on naval assault in a pincer movement, targeting the Northern port of Bilbao and the Med city of Barcelona.

In London, Spanish waiters retaliate by masturbating into the carbonara sauce of Conservative and UKIP voters.

The Royal Marines land on the beaches near Bilbao but the locals just laugh, befriend them and buy them Margaritas. The assault stalls as three Marine battalions are pinned down on the beach drinking and singing Julio Iglesias songs deep into the night. Fireworks are let off by the locals. Initial concern by the Marines is not in evidence.

“They’re just fireworks,” one says. “Best war I’ve ever been in. Apparently the lassie in the flamenco costume wants to take me for a paella. Wah hey! Get in!”

The Spanish President interrupts all media broadcasting to announce that Neymar’s third goal was a blatant handball after Barcelona’s 6-5 win at the Bernabeu and slams the Brazilian for being a “dirty cheating hijo de puta.” (Son of a bitch.)

Boris Johnson likewise interrupts all UK public broadcasting to complain that the Spanish aren’t taking this seriously.

The Spanish President responds by saying: “How can anybody take a gringo oaf like you seriously? You mop-headed Bullingdon Club muppet?”

Nigel Farage deserts the Walmington on Sea platoon and in defiance of orders commandeers a Piper Comanche light aircraft, which he proceeds to fly to somewhere near Berlin in order to beg for Angela Merkel to intervene and call for a halt to hostilities.

Theresa May would probably get very shouty and sweary.

The SAS storm the beaches at Barcelona but it’s too hot so they doff their uniforms and make camp. Before long they’re approached by hordes of weed dealers, prostitutes, human statues, jugglers and beggars. They all get stoned while they wait for orders. To keep the troops hydrated a convoy of waiters in tuxedos serve our boys absinthe and cocktails and tell the troops they’ll have to up sticks and move if they aren’t dining or have a pre-booked reservation.

One irate SAS officer on Barcelona beach threatens to shoot a particularly aggressive waiter in the head over a tipping argument but the face off is defused by a passing taxi driver who takes the SAS man twelve metres further down the beach for 20 Euro.

UKIP leader Paul Nuttall announces that he’s been awarded the Victoria Cross for storming and holding single handedly an ice cream van on Las Ramblas as he penetrated enemy lines. Strangely the Twitter message bearing the announcement was posted from an IP address in Birkenhead.

Nigel Farage cocks up on the map reading and instead of landing in north-eastern Germany actually parachutes into North Korea. He is picked up by Kim Jong Un’s security forces and taken to Sandow Prison where he is interrogated by North Korean agents. Farage offers to treat Kim Jong Un to a black forest gateau, a bottle of Grouse and a bag of Walker’s crisps by way of a bribe. Jong Un refuses.

Angela Merkel tells Britain to stop being stupid. Douglas Carswell announces that he can’t take it any more and he’s moving to North Korea. ISIS release a video stating that they’re totally confused by the whole situation and can’t make head nor tail of it.

Donald Trump flies into Heathrow on Air Force 1 and tells everybody to calm down. “Just calm down,” he says. “Calm down. Right down. All the way down. Get Zen. Do it bigly. Chill the fuck out,” as he waves his tiny hands in soothing gestures.

Vladimir Putin calls Trump a “yellow bellied bastard” on Russian state TV. According to Trump’s spray-tanning technician and chief advisors there isn’t really any point arguing with that, so Trump lets it go. For now… He later calls Putin a “gay Russki poisoner” on Twitter but subsequently announces that his Twitter account has been hacked by a mysterious man in a hat in Manhattan.

Theresa May is absolutely gutted when a glamour photographer – mistaking her for an aspiring model – says that he wouldn’t waste valuable film on her. She retreats to Downing Street and kicks Geoffrey Hammond’s cat on the way in, sparking cries of outrage from animal activists. She will go on to call a halt to hostilities, recall the troops from Spain and cry herself to sleep.

Patriotic UKIP supporters would probably be cheering our boys on from the safety of their own living rooms.

In an effort to secure Nigel Farage’s release, intrepid Mail reporter Katie Hopkins jets out to Pyongyang but turns back at the airport after discovering that North Korea is chock full of “smelly yellow low rent people.” She is violently sick on the return flight and an emergency landing in order to secure medical attention for the withered hack is only averted when Ms Hopkins reads a comment on Express online where somebody calling himself “RockHardJohnson” from Bromsgrove wrote: “She’s a bit of a pig but I’d give her one. For spite.”

Meanwhile back in Blighty everyone celebrates VE day (Victory over Europe day) by going down the pub and grumbling about gays and Muslims, apart from the Remoaners – who aren’t actually moaning any more, simply making plans to get the hell out while the going’s good – and Jeremy Corbyn calls for an election whereby he has as much chance of winning as he has of backing an athematic in a blow-football game against a free diver.

In North Korea Nigel Farage announces from his prison cell that he’s forming a new party – NKIP – North Korea Independence Party, based on anti-American propaganda and an inherent fear of the Japanese, calling for mass rallies and an end to immigration. Kim Jong Un laughs in his face, telling Farage that no fucker in his or her right mind would want to immigrate to North Korea but tacitly agrees to the proposition.

Arron Banks offers financial backing to NKIP, Douglas Carswell declares his intention to stand as the Member For Pyongyang Western Ward but is bitterly opposed by Paul Nuttall – winner of 8 Victoria Crosses in the Anglo-Spanish War.

Guy Verhofstadt reportedly died laughing and Paul Golding and Jayda Fransen invited Pippa Middleton to be Chief Bridesmaid at their impending nuptials in The Grand Central Mosque in Karachi, Pakistan.

In this, the first of what may or may not develop into some kind of series, we take a look at iconic British heroes, kicking off with ex-professional footballer, Stoke on Trent resident and Hillsborough survivor, UKIP leader Paul Nuttall PhD who is definitely not a racist. (Allegedly.)

Paul Nuttall has become something of an internet sensation recently, and for all the wrong reasons. Although Nuttall has distanced himself from claims made on his website, blaming anyone but himself it seems that the public aren’t buying it, and the response on social media has been an avalanche of merciless piss-taking on a level only surpassed by Agent Orange, the President of the United States.

If you believe everything you read on the internet, Paul Nuttall has been everywhere and done just about everything, ever, in the history of the world.

Paul’s been everywhere man. He was the one who noticed that Noah was missing a few animals on the ark. This is why we have wombats today.

Paul was at Waterloo don’t you know.

We don’t know who put all these memes together as they’re just screen grabs but if the authors responsible would care to drop us a line we’ll be happy to add names to the collection..

Shuttlecock.

Paul holding the fort with Stanley Baker at Rourke’s Drift. He also starred in the film Zulu!

Give me your money NOW! Paul was on the bill at Live Aid.

1066 and all, Paul battled with migrants at Hastings.

I hope my legs don’t break – walking on the moon…

I’m Spartacus! Paul showed the ancient Greeks a thing or two.

Paul pictured with the late and much lamented Rik Mayall filming the hit TV show Bottom.

Furious UKIP members have been turning on party leader, Nigel Farage and blaming his disastrous jacket and pants combo for the party’s humiliating defeat at the Oldham West and Royton by election. UKIP had been confident of putting a huge dent in the Labour vote, and everything seemed to be going swimmingly well until Mr Farage rolled into town wearing his bizarre mustard corduroys and a really weird sort of greenish checked jacket which conjured up visions of regurgitated salad leaves.

“I thought I was seeing things when Nigel turned up dressed in that outfit,” UKIP voter Terry Danzig said. “Who on earth wears a jacket like that in this day and age? And don’t even get me started on mustard pants. Even a circus clown would think twice about dressing like that. In fact I was so ashamed that I changed my mind and voted Labour in the end. Mustard pants are so unpatriotic.”

“I thought he was the Monster Raving Loony Party candidate at first,” another UKIP member groaned. “It was so embarrassing. No self respecting party leader should be dressing in mustard pants. That outfit is the sort of thing Chris Eubank might have worn when he was doing his lord of the manor thing. I doubt that even Russell Brand would be seen dead in mustard pants and a puke green check jacket.”

Not all UKIP members were in agreement though, with a handful giving Mr Farage’s mustard pants a firm thumbs up.

Ole mustard pants as seen on Café Spike’s clapped out laptop

“I thought the mustard pants were brilliant,” a man who called himself UKIP Dave said. “In fact I’ve got the wife scouring e-Bay as we speak for a nice pair of mustard pants in a 42″ waist and a 25″ inside leg. If mustard pants are good enough for Nigel then they’ll do for me. I’m just hoping there’s a pair out there my size. I’m a bit of a queer shape you see, but I live in hope.”

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about really,” said a UKIP member who called himself Greeny. “I thought the mustard pants were perfectly acceptable. Mind you I am colour blind.”

A source at UKIP HQ however was less than enthusiastic.

“Whoever heard of a leader wearing mustard pants?” she scoffed. “Churchill certainly wouldn’t have worn them and neither would Mrs Thatcher. Mustard pants are definitely traitorous and unpatriotic, so I shall be organising a petition to have Nigel ‘Mustard Pants’ Farage ousted from office. We need a charismatic leader in our party, like Paul Nuttall or Tommy Robinson, not some cultural Marxist wearing gay mustard pants. If I had my way Farage would be shot, with a gun, for bringing the party into disrepute.”